953 


JOHN   McGOVEEN'S 
POEMS 


JOHN 

McGOVERN'S 
POEMS 


WILLIAM  S.  LORD 

EVANSTON 
1902 


COPYRIGHT.   1902.  BY 

JOHN  McGovEHN 


TTPOCBiPBT  BT 
A!TKE»  *  CCR1IB   COMFA1TY,   CHICAGO 


.    TO 
MY  BELOVED  WIFE, 

A  HASTENING   FRIEND,    WHEN   EVEN 
NOBLE   DUTY   MIGHT   HAYE 
COME   WITH    STATELY 
STEP  " 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  KINE    .    .                          9 

GENIUS 10 

THE  TREES 11 

How  BRIGHT  JEHOVAH'S  CARPET 12 

PRIEST  OF  THE  MORNING .13 

I  HEARD  A  LARK 14 

COMET  OF  1882 15 

SUNRISE 16 

I  PRAY 18 

THE  POET 19 

DEATH  AND  MY  FELLOWS 21 

To  RUBINSTEIN 22 

TIME 2S 

A  RHAPSODY 24 

I  SAW  A  LIGHT 2ft 

HATE 27 

IRKOUTSK  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 28 

FANNY  DRISCOLL 30 

A  LEAF 31 

MEMORY 32 

To  H.  G.  C 33 

SUGGESTIONS  FOR  A  NAPOLEONIC  DRAMA      .    .  34 

THE  SAINT  IGNATIUS 37 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  STATE 41 

PASTORAL 45 

7 


JOHN   McGO VEEN'S    POEMS 


THE  KINE 

SWEET  -  BREATHING    kine    looked    up    from 
clover-mead, 
And  night  had  come.    Therefore  they  kneeled  them 

down, 

And  soon  the  field  was  freshened,  and  perfume 
Distilled  for  morn.     With  eyes  as  deep  as  heaven, 
And  peaceful  as  the  evening,  gazed  the  flock 
Upon  the  skies ;  and  in  those  eyes  benign 
All  night  on  went  the  starry  flight  eternal. 
O  wisdom  of  that  wider  view !    They  saw, 
And  were  not  envious.     They  knew  enough 
When  they  did  know  that  Dawn  would  light  their 

meadow. 

The  sun  came  o'er  a  corner  of  the  earth 
Far  to  the  north.     Soft  cooed  the  prairie-hens,. 
And  yellow-breasted  meadow-larks  took  wing 
To  chide  their  great  dumb  friends.     Beshuddering 
Their  glossy  coats,  the  kine  arose,  and  lo! 
(Hast  ever  seen  a  stretch  of  clover-bloom?) 
The  firmament  had  fallen  to  the  field! 

They  from  Orion  to  the  Dragon  roamed 
And  plucked  that  morn  a  thousand  dewy  stars. 
9 


GENIUS 

[T  IS  the  fire  beneath  some  night-fly's  wing, 
Making  a  star  out  of  the  risen  worm. 


10 


THE  TREES 

THE  Sun  came  onward,  scourging  all  the  stars 
Out  of  his  temple.     Maples,  oaks,  and  elms 
Stood  foiled  in  gold,  and  sheltered  timid  airs 
That  scarcely  moved  from  fear  of  March  the  Lion 
Sleeping  hard  by.     Thus  passed  a  day  of  summer 
Truant  out  of  June,  its  wandering  hours 
Delighting  Winter,  calling  heaven  down, 
And  luring  birds  to  love-songs. 

Blear,  unkempt, 

The  waking  Lion  roared ;  the  pale  North  Wind 
Sped  from  his  realm.     All  terrified,  the  trees 
Made  lowly  genuflections  through  the  night, 
Confessed  their  sin,  and  moaned  for  clemency ; 
Yet  when  their  friend,  the  poet,  came  to  them, 
He  found  long  rows  of  woody  penitents 
Dressed  with  disgrace — in  convict  garb  of  snow — 
And  wailing.     "I  myself  am- hurt,"  he  said. 
"So,  if  ye  grieve,  my  barer  woes  may  speak, 
For  ye  have  gnarled  circles  round  your  hearts 
Buckler  on  buckler.     Strike  your  Eolian  dirge — 
Song  of  the  sepulchre !    O  cruel  years ! 
O  Friendship's  welcome  turned  to  Venom's  coil ! — 
O  youth's  ambition  grown  to  manhood's  greed ! — 

0  spring  of  hope,  and  pale  North  Wind  of  Death ! 
Yea,  weep,  you  maples,  oaks  and  elms!"  he  cried; 
"Ye  are  my  better  tongue,  ye  are  my  wo; 

1  saw  your  icy  lord,  I  heard  your  prayers, 

I  know  your  sentence — sound  our  misery!" 
11 


HOW  BRIGHT  JEHOVAH'S  CARPET 

HOW  bright  Jehovah's  carpet !    Splendid  Hour 
Complete  with  glory — all  thy 

Milky  Way 

Pulsing  eternity !    Man  upward  looks ; 
He  looks,  and  upward  aims ;  and  calm-eyed  beasts 
That  sleep  not,  have  thy  golden  deep  for  dreams ! 
Lo,  I,  most  miserable  of  the  flesh, 
Proclaim  within  me  throbbings  of  the  light 
From  yonder  stars.     For  I  have  something  star-like 
Jealously  sentineled,  and  leashed  with  heart-strings, 
Which,  when  the  heavens  throw  their  portals  wide, 
To  pay  thee,  Night,  their  ceremonial, 
Peers  forth  on  each  familiar  galaxy, 
As  if  those  beacons  burned  for  its  return. 
And  as  I  lay  my  head  at  rest,  each  eve, 
Thy  oft-recurring  mandate  to  obey, 
O  Night,  I  feel  my  prisoner  more  glad, 
More  confident  of  his  release.     Alas ! 
Why  breaks  my  soul  so  quickly  from  my  keep? 
Why  yearns,  alas !  my  body  for  my  soul? 
Alas !  why  does  my  quivering  form  belie 
Its  wretched  doom  when  I  upsend  my  eyes ! 
O  Night !  forgive  my  bodily  delight ! 
Forgive  my  body's  envy  of  my  soul! 
Make  my  poor  flesh  and  blood  like  calm-eyed  beast's, 
And  let  me  have  thy  golden  deep  for  dreams. 

12 


PRIEST  OF  THE  MORNING 

THE  morning  twilight  surges  through  the  dome — 
The  dawn  awaits.     So  has  my  soul  sat  still, 
And,  like  this  day,  full  late  the  beam  of  peace 
Has  come  from  haunts  deep  in  the  Eastern  stars. 
Fierce  writhes  and  coils  the  Night,  and  westward 

rolls 

A  mass  of  darkness  and  despair,  a  load 
To  weight  a  Universe,  put  on  a  world ! 
O  life !  O  God !  O  sea  of  orient  sky ! 
There  is  with  me  an  end  of  soughing  waves ! — 
An  end  of  casting  anchors  in  mid-sea ! — 
An  end  of  chart  without  a  firmament ! 
Now  Morn  uplifts  this  sinister  pavilion ; 
Now  valiant  Hope  rebukes  my  soul's  confusion; 
Now  Joy  stands  at  the  gateways  of  my  heart 
Guiding  the  flood.     O  Sun  in  hidden  heaven ! 
Whose  gold  is  liveried  on  thy  couriers 
The  utmost  clouds — whose  coming  carpets  Earth 
Beauteous  with  life — whose  coming  tunes  the  woods 
With  warblers'  sweet  devotions — to  my  voice, 
My  ruder  song,  give  rapid  messengers — 
The  invisible  acolytes  of  thy  golden  fane — 
To  wing  it  to  yon  pillar  in  the  air, 
Thy  morning  altar  lit  with  silvery  fires ! 

Accept  my  offering;  pour  thy  earliest  gold 
Out  on  thy  pitiful,  who  then  shall  be 
All  holy-dipped,  emerged  from  Paradise — 
A  glorious  slave,  thy  shining  worshiper  1 
13 


I  HEARD   A   LARK 

I  HEARD  a  lark  amid  the  morning  clouds 
That  wrapt  his  flight  of  song.     As  if  that  lark, 
Seer  of  the  dawn,  rose  on  prophetic  wing, 
The  sun  now  gorged  the  canyons  of  the  sky, 
And,  all  the  barriers  of  the  zenith  breaking, 
On  happy  Earth  there  flowed  a  shining  ocean. 

With  this  thing  seeing,  I,  poor  wonderling, 
Made  half  of  saddened  sunlight,  raised  mine  eyes, 
Cast  off  my  baser  part,  and  grew  eternal. 

Lark  of  the  earth,  thy  song  shall  still  go  on 

When  mocking  blasts  bestrow  thy  tiny  plumes. 

E'en  now  thy  notes  of  earlier  spring  may  be 

Well  out  upon  an  awful  pilgrimage, 

Where  dumb,  despised,  unshapen  worlds  go  by, 

And  all  is  dark  forever.     Yea,  although 

The  hand  of  Cruelty  might  scarcely  feel 

Thy  heart-beats  in  its  grasp,  not  less  thy  cry 

May  probe  eternity,  to  leave  behind 

Faith's  low  petition  and  Doubt's  loud  harangue. 


14 


COMET  OF   1882 

BRIDE  of  the  morning  star,  hath  not  my  soul 
Enough  of  envy  in  these  nightly  hosts? 
Coms't  thou  to  wake  our  spirits  from  their  sleep 
Of  dumb,  dull  discontent?    Bright  apparition,  fade 
O  fade  not  from  my  clinging  eyes !    Take  me — 
Take  that  of  me  thou  wilt — from  off  this  orb 
Where  Sin  and  Death  are  prisoned ;  let  me  join 
Thy  splendid  train,  and  aid,  in  dawning  skies. 
Those  happier  stars  that  bear  thy  shining  veil. 


15 


SUNRISE 

SWIFT  Michigan,  full-rigged  with  white  cap  sail, 
Crowded  to  port  her  squadrons  infinite, 
Beneath  a  sky  where  Nature's  dye  was  mixing 
For  maidens'  morning  blushes.     Flying  swallows 
Surveyed  the  province  ceded  o'er  to  Dawn, 
And  called  their  links  and  chains  in  upper  air 
With  iteration  unmelodious. 

Along  the  shore  where  envious  waves  peeped  over, 
A  play-yard  stretched  for  miles,  and  iron  monsters, 
Unyoked  from  toils  and  journeyings  gigantic, 
Shouted  harsh-sounding  joy.     Tall  shadow  dancers 
Woke  into  yachts,  yet  gaily  reveled  on, 
While  steamers  cheerless  as  the  eye  of  Greed, 
And  swoln  with  avarice,  stole  round  the  pier, 
And  put  the  waves  to  flight.     The  amethyst 
And  velvet  air — where  Night  the  Jeweler 
Had  spread  bright  riches  brought  from  regions  far — 
On  ruddier  ether  rose — as  gently  rose 
As  moves  the  sentried  heart  through  dreams  that 

look 

On  scenes  where  all  goes  well.     The  lighthouse  flash 
That  in  the  darkness  oft  had  bridged  the  waves 
With  shining  girders,  flickered  like  a  wick 
Fal'n  in  the  oil.     As  in  swift-plowing  ship 
The  venturous  voyager,  filled  with  low  throbs 
And  vessel-motions  multitudinous, 
Peers  toward  the  furnaces  that  shore  his  seas — 
So  toward  the  east,  deep  in  the  firmament 
Forthcoming  with  the  morning  star,  the  eye 
16 


Peered  to  espy  the  heavenly  enginery 

That  wheeled  black-shrouded  earth  to  shores  of  day. 

Now  all  but  man  was  ready.     All  but  he 
With  little  patience — quivering — beheld 
This  eastern  panoply.     In  highest  flight, 
Where  golden  wings  awaited,  eager  birds, 
Like  sailor  on  the  mast,  from  tiny  throats 
Proclaimed  the  coming ;  bright  on  every  spire 
Shone  confirmation.     Rapt  in  fume  and  flame 
The  iron  chargers,  oft-defeated,  looked 
Upon  their  vanquisher.     Out  on  the  pier 
From  full  six  hundred  thousand  slumberers, 
A  dozen  fishermen  with  dumb  thoughts  filled 
And  cast  their  lines  again.     The  harbor-lamp 
Grew  thin  and  yellow,  as  it  had  been  shut 
Within  a  book  for  years.     The  yachts  their  dance 
Pushed  to  a  close,  and  Nature,  thus  prepared, 
Glowed  proudly  on  Lake  Michigan,  that  then 
Most  splendidly  returned  her  warmest  smile. 

Up  rose  the  Sun  all  haired  with  living  fires. 


17 


I  PRAY 

WHEN  white-eyed  Death  shall  fright  my  timid 
flesh, 

And  chase  my  spirit  from  his  habitation, 
May  willing  yet  unwilling  hands  take  me 
To  unoff  ended  Nature.     Then,  O  God ! 
Give  me  the  memory  of  an  honest  man, 
And  unseen  flowers  shall  keep  my  grave  as  sweet 
As  lilac-banks  that  make  one  narrow  week 
The  only  recollection  of  a  year. 


18 


THE  POET 
I 

HE  SITS  before  a  great  keyed  instrument, 
The  human  heart — built  like  some  Alpine  mill 
To  wheel  its  echoes  to  the  joyous  heights 
Or  urge  them  through  the  gloom.     And  as  he  sits 
O'er  all  the  jarrings  of  the  rough  red  rill 
That  plunges  down  to  Death,  he  strikes  a  chord, 
And  Love  reverberates.     Pleased  with  his  craft, 
He,  holding  all  his  keys,  with  quivering  hands, 
Joins  on  Affection's  softening  part,  and  plies 
Sad  Duty's  stops  and  lowly  harmonies. 

Thus  flows  the  psalm  of  Family  and  of  Home — 
The  sweetest  measures  of  the  poet's  art, 
Yet  on  his  mystic  keyboard,  oh!  how  few 
The  pipes  that  play ! — how  insignificant ! 

II 

Then  comes  the  flame,  the  flaming  stride  of  War, — 
The  poet's  hearthstone  set  to  head  the  graves 
Of  slaughtered  sire  and  son !     Then  breaks  the  storm 
From  forth  the  angry  pipes ;  then  comes  the  roar 
Of  mighty  octaves,  wild  and  tempest- tossed, 
With  passion-cries  of  freedom  crashed  and  hurled 
In  grievous  ruin,  like  some  city's  sack 
Of  precious  wares.     Behold  yon  tyrant's  throne 
Set  high  beyond  the  hurt  of  cannon's  wrath! 
Yet  see  it  quake! — aye !  'tis  an  airy  thing 
To  shore  the  moving  deeps  of  Liberty ! 
19 


in 

The  player  trembles  like  his  low-blown  reeds, 
His  hand  is  weak,  the  snow  drifts  through  his  pipes. 
Where  breaks  that  flood  which  filled  the  gorge  of  life 
With  such  sweet- sounding  waves  that  voyagers 
Baptized  with  freshened  hearts? — the  gloria ! 
Why  drowns  he  not  with  joyous  giant  chords 
The  murmurs  of  an  unhomed,  childless  wo? 

Thou  heedest  not !    The  patriarchal  ear 

Hears  from  the  strains  on  High  some  cadences; 

He  holds  his  touch  upon  the  keys  thus  light 

That  he  may  join  the  Choir  in  unison. 

Behold  his  aged  face  (chiseled  by  Time- 

An  evil  sculptor,  yet  a  master-hand) ! 

Sublime  he  smiles  and  strikes  the  key  of  heaven, 

Asking  of  his  still  noble  house  of  sound 

But  this  last  anthem.     Hark !  it  swells  anew ! 

Now  breathe  in  prayer  and  fall  ye  on  your  knees ! 

Now  lave  ye  in  the  holy  waves  of  holy  airs! 

The  God  of  Hosts  hymns  with  his  wafting  worlds — 

Adoring  Earth  pulsates  with  Paradise ! 


DEATH  AND  MY  FELLOWS 

1  THOUGHT,  with  selfish  thankfulness:  "If  men 
Were  all  immortal  save  myself,  how  sad, 
How  sadly  terrible  would  be  my  plight ! 
How  like  the  Aztecs'  captive  I  should  be — 
A  victim  for  the  knife,  though  loaded  down 
With  luxuries — if  I  were  hailed  each  morn 
By  brothers  of  the  sun !     And,  when  I  died, 
With  what  astonishment  the  golden-aged 
Would  look  upon  my  corse!  my  villain  corse! 
That  in  their  company  had  flashed  a  gem 
Which  had  been  stolen — property  of  soul 
Sought  by  the  Officer !"     With  thinking  this, 
I  went  among  my  comrades  yesterday, 
And  offered  them  ambrosia  for  their  locks, 
And  nectar  in  their  cups !    I  told  them  all, 
That  god- like  ichor  made  their  countenances 
Most  pleasurable — their  flesh  o'er-radiant! 
The  world  smiled  like  a  narrow-sighted  babe 
That  sees,  yet  can  but  see,  its  mother's  breast, 
And  I,  poor  courtier,  sick  with  giving  joy, 
Fled  toward  my  dreams  last  night  in  dismal  dread 
That  death  should  cast  his  ashes  over  me, 
And  never-dying  beings  bear  my  pall ! 


TO  RUBINSTEIN 

On  hearing  his  Ocean  Storm  portrayed  by  one  hundred  and 
seventy  musicians. 

THOU   shining  soul,    by   Fame    bright   burning 
kept, 

Is  God  not  angry  when  the  wind  is  wailing 
Hopeless  with  dread?    And  when  He  bids  the  storm 
To  whip  the  gamut  of  each  shrieking  shroud 
And  trumpet  thunders — speaks  He  calmly  then? 

If  thou,  on  shore  no  braver  than  thyself, 
Canst  key  the  sounding  cloud,  and  at  thy  will 
Chord  all  the  terrors  of  the  secret  deep, 
Then  may  those  greater  accents  of  God's  voice 
Be  taught  to  me,  if  thou  interpretest ! 

Before  Jehovah's  ark  mute  penitents 

Bent  round  high  priest,  and  breathing  frankincense 

And  myrrh  and  holy  oils,  revived  their  souls. 

Thou  my  high  priest  shalt  be !     Within  thy  fane 

With  formless  ceremony,  yet  in  garb 

And  ephod  of  bright  genius,  thou  shalt  list 

To  my  devout  and  prostrate  supplication ; 

Mine  shall  be  thy  rites,  and  thou  God's  power 

Shalt  bring  to  my  blind  soul,  as  I  do  hear 

Great  ocean's  heart-beats  sound  a  deep  alarm 

Lest  God  through  space  should  hurl  its  screaming 

bulk 

Or  scatter  it  for  dew  on  waking  worlds. 
22 


TIME 

MAN  whitens  into  death  and  lays  him  down 
In  dreadful  slumber  'neath  a  roof -like  mound 
That  sinks  soon  in  upon  his  dust.     A  stone 
His  name  proclaims  a  little  longer,  falls, 
And  crumbles,  having  filled  an  empty  use. 
Anon  the  plow  rives  up  the  fattened  ground, 
And  harvests  press  like  anxious  waves.     Then  war. 
The  peaceful  plowman  flees  before  a  host 
Of  conquering  invaders  come  to  sack, 
And  strip,  and  pillage.     Soon  the  straggling  brush 
Starts  into  saplings,  and  the  saplings  wax 
To  solemn  woods.     Now  comes  the  simple  bard, 
And  peers  with  wonder  in  among  the  trees 
That  weave  their  colors  with  the  fragrant  air, 
And  sings:  "This  is  the  forest — this  must  be 
The  forest  called  primeval,  and  untrod." 
Forward  the  cycles  roll — the  ax,  the  fires. 
The  plow,  the  harvest  moons,  the  grave,  the  sword, 
The  impenetrable  councils  of  the  oaks, 
And  last  some  circlings  of  a  corse-like  orb — 
Until  the  world,  a  worn  and  fluttering  moth, 
Drops  in  the  central  conflagration,  and  expires. 


A  RHAPSODY 

Auroral  Tumult  on  the  morning  of  April  17,  1882. 

FORTH  from  the  watches  of  the  night  I  gaze 
To  place  the  Greater  Bear— Help!  Help!  the 

world ! 
Awake !  ye  sleeping  hosts,  and  read  the  sky ! 

A  whirlpool  snatching  at  a  million  streams, 

Sucking  the  glory  of  the  universe ; 

A  cataract  that  falls  where  I  would  rise ; 

An  awful  flood,  on  which  the  stars  shine  strangely; 

A  tide  ethereal,  all  space  engulfing, 

As  though  the  current  of  the  Milky  Way 

Had  overflown — as  though  the  wandering  earth 

Passed  through  the  luster  of  some  greater  sun 

Whose  night  was  day!    Fall   down,  self-sceptered 

soul! 

Fling  off  thy  garb  of  state !    Thou  art  within 
The  ante-chambers  of  the  court  of  Heaven ! 

A  tabernacle  stanchioned  with  broad  beams 
Of  silvery  fire,  and  keyed  with  frosted  stars ; 
And  at  the  apex,  waving  scrolls  of  flame, 
Doubtless  two  angels  momentarily — 
So  that  my  favored  soul  should  see  them  there, 
Yet  not  in  holy  agony  expire. 
24 


Quick  from  the  mystic  north  the  living  light 
Clambers  the  stars,  or  flows  the  fitting  robes 
Of  God's  ambassadors ;  and  through  the  gate 
Thick  clouds  of  glory  back  and  downward  plunge, 
As  if  outbound  effulgence  suddenly 
Had  peered  on  Sabaoth ! 

O  God!  Thouliv'st! 

Thou  surely  liv'st!    I  am  so  near  Thee  now! 
Open  Thy  reverent  firmament  to  me ! 
Unshade  mine  asking  eyes !— Protect  mine  eyes! 


I  SAW  A   LIGHT 

I  SAW  a  Light  upreared  afar,  so  pure 
That  to  my  constant  gaze  it  seemed  to  come 
Half-way  to  me.     With  hope  born  from  our  prayers, 
We  on  a  night  of  waters  tossed ;  yet  came 
From  other  country  of  an  eastern  sky 
The  fearful  pillage  of  a  cold-eyed  Dawn, 
That  stole  our  star  to  gem  some  new-made  night, 
And  stationed  Horror  in  our  pilot-house. 

I  felt  a  Love  so  full  of  charity, 
That  to  my  yearning  heart  it  seemed  to  come 
Half-way  to  me.     And  then,  all  through  a  night 
Filled  with  heart-broken  days,  I  stood  the  watch 
At  misery's  masthead,  and  in  break  of  day 
When  Love  died  out,  cried  to  my  heart  below 
A  dawn  of  darker  night  and  deeper  seas. 

I  saw  the  Truth  afar,  blazing  so  bright 
That  to  my  constant  gaze  it  seemed  to  come 
Half-way  to  me.     All  through  a  night  of  Life 
I  held  my  helm,  until  the  morn  of  Death 
Came  on  the  world ;  then,  as  I  peered, 
Behold!  my  beacon  vanished,  and,  alas! 
I  only  saw  its  ashes  eddying 
Above  the  breakers  of  Eternity. 


HATE 

ET  Merit  cease  to  be!"    This  was  the  crime- 
That  Merit  lived  at  all!    Could  he  forgive? 
Could  he  make  reparation?    Strike  him  down ! 
And  Envy  then  might  breathe  again,  and  Hate 
Accept  apology !    So  Merit  died. 
Yet  o'er  his  grave  stood  Hate,  deep  in  the  night, 
While  Courage  slept,  and  on  the  low-hung  clouds 
Hate  poured  his  woe — he  had  so  small  relief, 
Though   'neath  his  feet  great  Merit  lay  in  peace. 


27 


IRKOUTSK  TO  SAN   FRANCISCO 

On  receipt  of  news  from  De  Long  by  Telegraph,  Dec.  21, 1881. 

grinding  ices  of  the  central  sea 
Closed  round  our  mariners.     The  continents 
Peered  past  the  circle  of  the  Dipper  stars 
Through  fog  and  storm — in  fear.     Then  when  the 

King 

Of  Coldland  fell  upon  these  venturers 
He  crushed  their  hardy  ship  within  his  hand, 
And  cast  them  freezing  toward  Siberia. 
They  touch  the  world  again,  and  all  the  world, 
Pleased  like  a  mother  with  her  babe  at  breast, 
Trembles  with  joy.     These  wonders  have  we  seen 
This  white-haired  year  of  this  hoar  century. 

The  papa  lisped  by  kissing  babe  at  night 
Did  drift  on  word-waves  from  Siberia's  plains — 
Did  journey  west,  e'en  like  this  telegraph, 
Full  twenty  thousand  miles,  and  yet  did  dwell 
Full  twenty  thousand  years  upon  the  way ! 
How,  then,  shall  simple  songster  read  these  signs? 
Are  scores  of  thousand  zodiacs  a  jot 
To  point  God's  periods?    Or  is  a  flight 
That  jibes  at  distance,  mocks  at  time,  itself 
An  essence  of  the  ages,  or  a  soul 
Of  dying  world?    O  God !    I  can  but  see, 
Here  in  my  darkness,  that  our  compass  spreads 
Within  Thy  narrowest  metes ;  I  can  but  give 
28 


For  shortest  record  in  Thy  chronicles 

The  years  our  dust  shall  moon  yon  noble  sun ! 

The  Aryan,  this  morning,  stretched  his  hand, 
And,  o'er  a  pathway  strewn  with  centuries, 
Knocked  at  the  Golden  Gate !    Such  was  the  act ! 
Yet  not  more  fugitive  and  brief  than  man ! 
Nor  yet  than  his  abode,  this  girdled  orb ! 
A  spark  of  light,  sped  by  the  craft  of  man ; 
A  flash  of  years  hurled  from  the  hand  of  God — 
So  passes  man's  short  history  here  on  earth — 
So  passes  earth's  short  history  here  in  heaven ! 


29 


FANNY  DRISCOLL 

LIFE  woke  within  her,  and  her  chorded  soul 
From  harped  heaven,  breathed  fine  harmonies 
E'en  when  Eola  passed,  at  which  Eola  led 
That  way  her  Sister,  whom  devout  mankind 
Have  left  unnamed ;  straightway  the  poet's  wand 
Built  up  a  temple  and  a  worship  lit 
That  famed  the  region.     Then  the  people  cried : 
"Behold!  a  priestess,  yea,  a  prophetess!" 

And  as  her  temple  rose,  and  multitudes 
Surrounded,  clamoring,  she  added  then 
A  holier  rite — where  woman  at  her  best 
With  warmest  heart  most  glorifies  the  world. 
Now  blazed  her  altar,  and  her  oracles 
Had  life's  full  meaning ;  yet  that  very  blaze 
Warmed  into  life  the  python  Phthisis,  coiled 
Close  by  the  sacred  flame.     One  cruel  blow 
That  serpent  struck,  and  set  the  poet's  clay : 

As  flees  Eola  when  the  cloud- wheel  stalks 
Red-cored  with  lightning  from  Dakota's  plain, 
So  fled  the  poet's  soul  when  vorticed  Death 
That  sweetly  censored  temple  overwhelmed. 

Grim  airs  of  Death,  ye  leave  our  fields  so  bleak 
We  have  no  flowers  for  our  sweet  poet's  grave ! 


A  LEAF 

FROM  out  the  topmost  bulb — a  budding  sentry — 
A  leaflet  spread  its  green  against  the  blue ; 
The  songsters  heralded  its  earthly  entry 
And  it  was  christened  in  the  Morning's  dew. 

<! 

All  through  the  summer,  on  an  oak  that  towered, 

A  stately  captain  of  his  lordly  kind, 
It  fanned  the  birdlings  in  their  nest  embowered, 

Or  from  their  housing  turned  the  churlish  wind. 

Then  Autumn  chanting  came.,  in  vestments  sober, 
Bearing  the  cup  of  dissolution's  lees; 

Forth  in  the  majesty  of  hazed  October, 
A  withered  leaf  was  hearsed  upon  the  breeze. 


81. 


MEMORY 

0UR  hopes  may  lie  as  cold  as  love  fear-sapped — 
As  ripe  to  be  inhumed  oblivion-wrapped — 
Yet  mournfully  we  keep  them  on  their  biers, 
Palled  in  the  shadows  of  the  gloomy  years. 

Deep  in  our  misty  woe  we  hover  prone 
Above  their  corses,  and,  with  bated  groan, 
The  story  of  their  life  and  death  recite 
Unto  our  only  friend,  the  poor,  blind  Night. 

Our  wounds  are  all  we  have — we  love  them  well ; 
Their  quickness  pleases  us — we  nurse  the  spell ; 
Not  one  of  us  dare  crave,  for  our  distress, 
The  clammy  keep  of  blank  Forgetfulness. 


TO  H.  G.  C. 

BIRD  in  these  woods !  how  drear  to  me 
The  moaning  of  these  woods  will  be 
When  thou  dost  sing  thy  morning  lay 
In  fairer  forests,  far  away ! 

When  ermined  Winter  scowled  on  thee, 
A  wandering  warbler,  sad  to  see — 
Meek  was  thy  mien  'neath  his  restraint, 
Thy  plumes  were  piteous,  not  thy  plaint. 

But  when  the  Summer  came  to  thee, 
How  thou  didst  swell  with  melody ! 
Thy  song  will  ever  welcome  be 
In  my  sweet-echoing  memory. 

Bird  in  the  woods !  how  mute  will  be 
These  music-throbbing  leaves  to  me 
When  owls  of  envy,  hawks  of  scorn, 
Hoot  through  the  night,  rail  at  the  morn! 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  A  NAPOLEONIC  DRAMA 

I 
NAPOLEON  AFTER  MURDERING  D'ENGHEIN 

1  THINK  I  killed  ten  thousand>  men  at  Friedland. 
I  know  it  made  me  qualmy  of  the  blood — 
Though  I  had  won  my  war-legs,  and  had  seen 
Some  horrors.    ' ' Bravo ! ' '  cried  the  clods  and  crowns ; 
"This  general  fights  like  Mars!     Let's  make    him 

peace! 

Let's  call  him  master,  cousin!"    Yet — I  clip 
One  royal  wart  from  off  the  public  weal, 
That's  pinched  mankind  to  penance,  like  some  bean 
Blistering  a  fool's  heel — and  these  same  clods 
Shudder  like  jelly !     Bah!  God's  wounds!  .  .  .  And 

still 

France  must  not  brood  on  even  this  one  egg 
Of  discontent,  or  I,  her  stile-brained  choice, 
Crowned  by  her  patriarchal  pontiff,  oiled 
By  simpering  tongues,  will  flounder.      Too  much 

blood 

Flows  in  her  veins.     She  needs  the  leech  of  war ! 
By  the  raft  of  Tilsit!  she  shall  have  it! 

II 
NAPOLEON  AFTER  WATERLOO 

MY  SHIP  is  past  my  helm;  I  wait  the  shock 
That  breaks  my  keel.     One  moment  on  those 

rocks 

And  I,  great  wreck,  shall  strow  the  beach  of  Time, 
34 


Piling  the  higher  with  the  ages.     There 

Let  little  conquerors,  upon  the  income 

Haply  of  their  good  tide,  pick  up  small  fragments 

From  my  rich  voyage,  and  forge  themselves  thereby 

Proud  salutations !    Ah  ye  world  of  midges, 

Little  did  ye  know  how  with  a  brand  the  more 

I  could  have  burned  the  air  free  of  your  corpses ! 


Ill 
THE   DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON 

[The  Rock  of  St.  Helena — Napoleon  dying — Doctors 
and  attendant— A  great  storm.] 

FAPOLEON.     Six    years  have  knit  the  broken 

bones  of  the  world. 
Caesar  and  Alexander,  Hannibal, 
I  join  you. 

ATTENDANT.     There's  danger  in  this  storm. 

DOCTOR.    I  fear  it. 

NAPOLEON.  Moscow,  Leipsic,  Waterloo, 

Cease  troubling  me !     Ye  mar  the  deeper  chant 
Of  wars  that  on  a  weeping  world  enthroned  me ! 

ATTENDANT.     Sire,  it  is  the  storm — 'tis  nothing  but 
the  storm ! 

NAPOLEON.     Holy  Alliance  of  the  elements, 
Shout  o'er  my  soul !     It  was  imprisoned  before 
An  army  of  small  Kings  had  taught  to  men 
This  use  of  St.  Helena.     All  your  waves 
May  scourge  this  rock,  and  all  oncoming  time 
May  push  its  greedy  billows ;  my  great  name 
Shall  flash,  a  towering  light  upon  the  reef, 
To  warn  all  men  against  ambition. 


ATTENDANT.  Sire ! 

0  Sire !  renounce  ambition :  speak  to  me ! 
NAPOLEON.     Ambition !  ay,  it  is  the  coast  of  Hell ! 

And  they  who  cruise  thereby  a  helm  must  hold 
Gigantic.     O  it  is  sad  for  the  envious 
To  come  that  way !    They  sail  for  cargoes  rich 
Their  leaking  ships  to  load;  there's  greater  hope 
For  little  children  begging  charity 
Of  mouse-faced  men ! 
DOCTOR.  His  heart-beats  quicken !    God ! 

'Tis  history ! 
NAPOLEON.         Aha !  an  eagle's  beak ! 

[Clutching  his  heart. 
Pluck  deep,  proud  bird !     'Twill  run  in  your  blood ! 

Your  chicks 
Will  in  the  storm-cloud  build  their  tabernacle. 

[Falling  back. 

1  die — a  simple  word — a  simple  thing. 

When  Death  sits  by  the  great  they  do  not  weep 
The  world  good-by.     With  smiling  face  they  greet 
Our  equal  minister. 

[Death  dimly  revealed  as  a  skeleton,  seated  on  the 
further  side  of  the  couch.  ] 

Good  Pastor,  know 

That  I  sought  not  this  corner  of  thy  parish, 
Giving  thee  journey.     France  should  set  mine  urn 
Within  our  capital — 'twould  profit  her 
More  than  her  palaces.     To  eternal  rest 
I  give  my  clay ;  this  oldwife  Earth  will  long 
And  lovingly  prate  of  the  spouse  who  beat  her. 


THE  SAINT  IGNATIUS 

A  SCHOLAR,  lightly  reading,  heard  the  storm, 
Yet  used  it  for  his  comfort.     Roaring  grates 
Mocked  at  the  gale.     Through  parlor-arches  flowed 
Faint  airs  like  summer  waves,  so  peacefully 
That  though  they  sought  a  well-accustomed  ear 
They  seemed  to  ride  some  new-discovered  sea, 
And  passed  unknown,  to  strand  amidst  perfumes. 

Thus  read  the  scholar : 

"Once  upon  a  time, 

The  Etruscan  country  sounded  far  the  fame 
Of  Saint  Ignatius,  Best  of  Blessed  Men, 
And  filled  with  holy  fire ;  until  a  fervor 
Seizing  on  a  youth,  he  sought,  and,  journeying, 
He  found  the  monk,  and  in  his  monastery, 
The  Brothers  Paul,  Maximilian,  Eustace,  Luke, 
Marcellus,  Simon,  Vincent,  Hilary, 
And  Pius — holier  men  than  common  mortals. 

"With  hope  of  gaining  heaven  the  youth  besought 
Those  monks  that  he  might  join  a  timid  voice 
With  their  loud  adorations.     Thus  it  came 
This  worshiper  was  soon  a  novice  in 
The  trade  of  praising  God.     He  ate  the  husks 
And  chaff  of  outer  form  until  his  soul 
Grew  gaunt  and  meagre.     So,  one  day  he  spake 
And  said  unto  the  saint  and  brothers  nine 
37 


That  he  should  leave  them.  Then,  their  under 
eyelids 

Drooping  on  their  cheeks,  the  friars  crossed  them- 
selves, 

Spurned  him,  and,  in  their  wrath,  threw  ashes  on 
him. 

"So  journeyed  he  unto  a  mighty  town 

Where  wealth  unmeasured  waited  him,  and  years 

Piled  up  his  fame,  until  no  distant  land 

Outlay  his  reputation.     All  the  past — 

As  dusk  dissolves  at  dawn — went  from  his  mind. 

But  through  these  times,   a  war   and    scandals 

vague 

Had  brought  our  monks  to  beggars'  beggary. 
Therefore  it  came  to  pass,  one  wintry  night, 
That  as  the  great  man  sat  in  his  rich  home, 
And  Comfort  held  the  citadel, — a  storm 
Encamped  about,  balked  but  beleaguering — 
There  came  a  knock  upon  his  outside  portals, 
Knocking  with  loud  assurance  as  of  kinsmen 
Come  to  a  Christmas  feast.     Whereat  he  ordered 
The  opening  of  his  massive  doors ;  and  there 
With  under-eyelids  drooping  on  their  cheeks, 
Stood  Saint  Ignatius,  Best  of  Blessed  Men, 
And  Brothers  Paul,  Maximilian,  Eustace,  Luke, 
Marcellus,  Simon,  Vincent,  Hilary. 
And  Pius, — all  the  ten,  ten  times  unwelcome." 

Then  natural  weariness  and  luxury 
Combined  to  stop  this  tale.     The  scholar's  eye 
Roamed  past  the  arches  where  red  firelights,  flash- 
ing, 

38 


Jeweled  the  trappings,  or  in  fairy  fabrics 

Arrowed  barbaric  wounds ;  anon  his  gaze 

Visited  a  far  salon,  where  tigers  glared, 

And  shrinking  leopards  crouched  in  tawnier  wools 

From  Anatolia — carpetings  that  waved 

Like  growing  grain.     On  ebbed  the  harmonies, 

Almost  as  subtle  as  the  soul — elusive 

E'en  as  happiness ! 

Lured  thus,  the  scholar 

Sadly  remembered  him  how,  like  the  novice, 
He  in  his  boyhood  worshiped  where  a  priestess, 
Sitting  demurely  at  her  instrument, 
Made  him  her  slave,  yet  simply  played  Pique  Dame 
And  Zampa,  Trovatore,  Traumerei, 
And  William  Tell.     To  him  those  strains  became 
An  ecstasy  of  hope.     Anon  she  swept 
The  throbbings  of  his  heart,  finding  them  not 
Delightful  to  her  touch,  so  that  the  youth 
Was  left  by  Love  to  die ;  but  he  sprang  up, 
And,  as  he  mended  his  hurt  heart,  the  maid 
Still  at  her  siren  keyboard  played  Pique  Dame 
And  Zampa,  Trovatore,  Traumerei, 
And  William  Tell,  which  thence,  with  gradual  years, 
Grew  sweet  once  more,  and  served  the  requiem 
Of  his  agony.     Soon  a  maid  more  fair, 
More  happy,  and  more  lovable,  he  woed 
And  wed,  while  all  the  years  outran  each  other, 
Bringing  him  blessings  and  renown. 

But,  wondering 

Why  thus   the   witch    Remembrance    croned   her 
ghosts 


To  fright  Contentment,  up  the  scholar  rose 
And  strode  adown  his  parlors.     Then  the  music 
Waking  his  mind  once  more,  he  needed  nought 
To  tell  him  why  his  moments  had  been  saddened. 
A  favorite  daughter,  sitting  in  an  alcove, 
Seeking  to  please  his  ear,  had  played  Pique  Dame 
And  Zampa,  Trovatore,  Traumerei, 
And  William  Tell.     Thus  through  his  revery 
Had  stalked  the  shades  of  a  forgotten  passion — 
Thus  opened  memory's  outer  gates,  and  there, 
With  under  eyelids  drooping  on  their  cheeks, 
Stood  Saint  Ignatius,  Best  of  Blessed  Men, 
And  Brothers  Paul.  Maximilian,  Eustace,  Luke, 
Marcellus,  Simon,  Vincent,  Hilary, 
And  Pius — all  the  ten,  ten  times  unwelcome. 


40 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  STATE 

T"*HE  morn!— as  gray  as  was  the  look  of  death 

1       Upon  my  husband's  face !    I  could  have  wished 
The  morn  had  never  come — yet  when  I  knew 
It  stole  upon  the  murder  of  my  son 
I  had  no  patience.     Out  on  such  a  day ! 
A  cancer  on  all  time!    E'en  now  the  slaves 
Behold  my  boy  with  executioner's  red  lust, 
And  laugh  like  grave-dogs.     O  how  I  did  plead ! 
(When    was't  —  I've   slept    not!  —  'twas    the    day 

before — 

And  God !  to-morrow  will  be  afterward) — 
Ay,  yesterday  I  kneeled  before  that  man, 
And  prayed  as  one  should  pray  to  God  alone 
To  aid  my  cause !    O  Governor !    O  hear ! 
My  son  did  lift  his  hand  in  blood  made  hot 
With  cursed  wine.     He  did  that  thing  of  shame 
In  wildest  passion.     Then  let  not  this  law, 
Built  in  men's  wisdom,  fall  on  his  young  head 
And  break  me  with  the  stroke!"     "Good  woman, 

list: 

You  think  not  of  the  victim  slain,  a  mother 
Visiting  his  early  grave  and  planting  flowers 
With  hand  by  horror  palsied !"     ' 'O  great  sir, 
Have  mercy!    Would  that  my  poor  son  had  fal'n 
And  I  passed  by  the  copings  of  the  rich 
To  find  an  humbler  grave  and  shed  my  tears ! 
That,  sir,  were  grief — but  not  a  devilish  grief 
To  wreck  the  human  soul.     Revolting  God ! 
41 


Must  I,  then,  grasp  the  brush  of  obloquy 

And  mark  the  headstones  of  a  line  of  sires 

All  pure  and  honorable?    If  this  blow 

Fall  on  my  head,  have  I,  then,  but  the  woe 

Of  that  sad  mother?    Hearken,  O  great  sir ! 

This  law  was  made  by  men  well  satisfied 

In  life,  afar  from  deadly  acts.     Would  they, 

O  sir — would  they  build  up  a  thing  from  Hell 

To  tear  the  holy  life  from  out  a  man? 

Would  they  come  from  such  sacrifice  and  set 

This  devil's  ceremony  in  its  place, 

Among  our  laws  the  foremost?    Never !     No ! 

And  you — who  can  by  one  small,  written  thing, 

Estop  this  second  curse — would  you  for  hire — 

For  all  the  welcome  gifts  of  your  high  power — 

Go  to  that  den  of  death  and  strain  the  life 

Out  of  this  fellow  being?    Nay,  O  nay ! 

Do  not  therefore,  I  beg,  drive  those  base  hinds  , 

Who  group  around  my  son  to  eat  his  flesh 

And  earn  their  bread  by  toil  so  damnable!" 

"Good  man !"  he  said,  as  he  had  said  "Good  woman!" 

"Good  man,  show  her  the  way !    I  fear  she  needs 

Some  help  to  walk !    Good  woman,  I  will  act 

As  well  becomes  my  duty.     If  I  find 

My  pity  can  have  ear,  you  may  take  hope!" 

And  at  the  very  time,  as  I  did  turn, 

He  bade  a  second  clerk  the  case  was  closed, 

And  other  matters  pressed. 

O  breathing  life! 

Hast  thou  lain  coiled  within  my  heart  this  while 
A  deadly  snake?    Am  I  a  thing  of  death, 
A  living  upas,  bearing  fruit  of  men 


Who  must  be  tracked  and  torn  by  human  hounds? 

Upon  the  green  I  played  with  little  girls: 

My  breath  was  sweet,  my  eyes  were  blue,  my  hair 

Was  such  that  good  old  men  would  stop  awhile 

To  stroke  my  head  and  ask  my  name.     At  night 

My  mother  heard  my  sins,  and  found  her  heart 

Full  wide  for  blessings,  teaching  me  that  God 

Had  yet  a  greater  love.     And,  as  I  grew, 

No  warning  came.     My  husband  bore  me  forth 

While  lanterned  steeple  rocked  with  wedding-bells ; 

And  of ,the  love  we  had  we  built  a  home 

Which  Death  espied.     Then  went  my  husband  out 

The  dreaded  journey  and  my  babe  sucked  salt 

From  sorrow's  breast !    Mayhap  'twas  there  the  child 

Fed  on  the  sin — ay,  let  me  have  the  hope : 

That  then  in  agony  the  murder-draught 

Was  filtered.     Thus  my  soul  with  kinder  look 

May  leave  my  wretched  body.     Thus  my  son 

With  parent  ghost  may  walk  beyond  this  world 

In  mien  all  nobly  sad. 

The  hour  of  Death.]        My  friends,  forgive! 

I  soon  will  be  the  mother  of  a  corse 

Made  by  the  State.     The  State  thus  deals  with  me. 

And  I  do  ask  you,  stand  without,  and  watch 

That  I  may  know  the  earliest  approach 

Of  that  which  now  awaits. — I  am  alone! 

^1  courier:] 

Let  not  that  messenger  come  near  whose  worda 

Stand  on  his  ugly  face— I'll  not  have  it 

Drinks:] 

How  sweet  this  cup!    How  kind  these  murderous 

pains ! 
How  quick!— not  e'en  a  tithe  so  horrible 

43 


As  smiles  of  pity  from  a  Governor. 

Dying:] 

Then  this  is  death !    I  had  some  girlish  hope 

There  would  be  light!     'Tis  cold— I  have  not  felt 

Such  cold  before.     'Tis  further  than  I  thought. 

O  shades !  if  ye  be  round  me,  cry  aloud ! 

Where  waits  my  son?    My  son,  desert  me  not ! 


44 


PASTORAL 


IMMERSED  in  sunshine,  tremulous,  intense, 
1     Lie  depths  of  wheat,  and  corn,  and  pasturage ; 
And  where  the  acres  meet  in  rivalry, 
A  miser-pond  evades  the  Sun-King's  tithes, 
Hiding  with  lily  leaves  an  envied  hoard. 
Far  off,  an  oaken  family  surround 
A  giant  of  hard  fibre,  who  has  sat 
At  feast  with  Time  himself,  and  banqueted 
On  centuries.     There  well-fed  cattle  stand, 
Watching  unenviously  the  outer  sky, 
Where  cloud-flocks  graze  upon  the  sides  of  heaven. 
Some  proud  pond  Ararat  has  stayed  a  plank 
And  raised  it  well  aslant ;  upon  this  perch 
A  row  of  turtles  bask  their  checkered  backs, 
And  view  with  stolid  look  the  overtures 
Of  nodding  reeds  and  fawning  marsh-grass  nigh. 
The  weary  wheat-stems  stoop  like  mendicants, 
While  alien  rye-stalks  rear  their  empty  heads. 
The   corn— (just   o'er   a   fence   where    chipmunks 
romp) — 

A  green,  cockaded  host,  in  phalanx  drawn, 
Each  soldier  armed  with  many  cutlasses — 
Bespeaks  the  pomp  of  disciplined  array, 
Nor  flinches  in  the  fervor  of  the  sun. 
45 


O'er  all  a  storm-portending  haze ;  from  all, 
A  heated  perfume — clover,  wheat,  and  corn. 

II 

The  swan-like  clouds  that  swam  with  swelling  wing 

In  tropic,  halcyon,  horizon  seas, 

Have  changed  to  furious  cars  of  war,  and  drive 

To  offer  scowling  battle  with  the  sun. 

High  o'er  Andean  lines  of  clouds  there  looms 

A  solemn  Chimborazo  of  the  sky, 

And  from  its  avalanching  sides  flash  forth 

The  spears  of  hosts  in  heavenly  ambuscade. 

The  black  clouds  upward  clamber,  and  the  mount 
Attains  new  height,  till  now,  as  Titans  mad 
Pile  other  mountains  on  too  recklessly, 
The  upper  fabric  topples — yet,  indeed, 
Some  nightmare  compromise  with  gravity 
Leaves  Earth  uncrushed. 

Anon,  a  horrid  sight 

Hovers  on  high :  The  flapping  storm-cloud 
A  mighty  vampire  come  to  suck  the  world. 

Hotly  the  archers  pour  their  golden  darts 
From  parapets  of  light  and  battlements 
With  glory  blazing— dreadlessly  and  dire 
Not  less,  their  hideous  enemy  assaults 
The  splendid  citadel — alas !  how  soon 
Beleaguered  Day  is  fallen  prisoner ! 

Now  dirgeless  shadows  in  long  pageant  come, 
Of  gloom  the  celebrants,  death-angel-like , 
And  as  their  progress  blackens  field  and  pond 
46 


The  turtles  scramble  down  in  clumsy  haste, 

And  loyal  cornstalks  on  the  distant  hill 

Wave  goodbys  sunward  with  bright  oriflammes. 

Down  through  an  air  come  up  from  nether  earth, 
Forth  from  the  turmoil  of  inverted  seas, 
A  fiery  force  with  crash  on  crash  is  hurled, 
Thrilling  all  things  as  if  the  startled  earth 
Rocked  in  volcanic  violence.     This  signal  made, 
The  volleys  of  the  pirate  squadrons  pound 
Hard  on  the  haughty  corn,  the  modest  wheat, 
And  on  the  lily  leaves  like  musketry 
Rattle  their  crystal  bullets.     Gusts  of  air 
Chase  nimble  swirls  of  rain ;  through  yeasty  mists 
A  million  worlds  join  to  the  universe, 
And  shackles  of  white  lightning  manacle 
The  trembling  sky.     Heaven.is  an  idol-house, 
Thick  with  abominations,  and  its  walls, 
Its  lurid  walls,  are  darkened  with  the  shapes 
Of  pagan  elements  in  revelry. 

HI 

The  storm  recedes,  the  sun  shines  out,  the  clouds, 
Like  fallen  fortresses,  their  portals  ope 
Before  the  flight  of  earthward-hurrying  beams — 
And  lo !  the  couriers  with  their  victory ! 
The  music  of  the  herd  comes  o'er  the  mead 
In  homely  cow-bell  tones,  as  rude  to-day 
As  in  Pan's  time.     The  clover-synod  kneels — 
Each  tiny  bishop's  mitre  lit  with  gems — 
And  silken  rustles  fill  the  aisles  of  corn, 
As  though  the  wives  of  modern  Pharisees 
Passed  to  their  public  prayer.     Behind  a  gorge 
47 


Of  ether  icebergs,  Hope,  at  azure  loom, 

In  warp  of  sunrays  with  a  woof  of  rain, 

Arches  her  rainbow  web  upon  the  black 

That  curtains  all  the  east,  where  crowds  the  storm. 

GREENFIELD  TOWNSHIP 

La  Grange  County,  Indiana,  1861. 


IV 


MoGovern, 

»T  ohn  MoG-dva  rn  T  a 


953 


10 


poems 


M515749 


